


Perception’s A Tool That’s Pointed On Both Ends

by babykid528



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Gen, M/M, Mutilation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykid528/pseuds/babykid528
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zachary Quinto is hired as a special investigator for the FBI Behavioral Sciences Unit due to his unique ability to empathize with serial killers. In an effort to protect Zach's splintering mental state, Dr. Christopher Pine is brought in to evaluate him as his psychiatrist.</p><p>[AKA that Pinto Hannibal AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perception’s A Tool That’s Pointed On Both Ends

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a multi-chapter WIP with each chapter meant to somewhat mirror episodes of the tv show Hannibal. The story also draws heavily from the Thomas Harris Hannibal novels - specifically _Red Dragon_ and _Hannibal_.
> 
> Due to the nature of the Hannibal Universe, please heed all listed warnings. This story includes cannibalism, blood, gore, torture (physical and psychological), and other seriously disturbing content. I will update the tags/warnings as I continue to write. However, if there is anything you think needs to be tagged/warned for, PLEASE let me know. I will gladly add any tags requested.
> 
> Furthermore, this is RPF fic and a majority of the characters described within have the names/traits of famous people associated with Trek. There will be mutilation and death in this, and no one will remain unharmed (except maybe Anton). People you may love in real life will play killers and victims in this story. If that is something you can't stomach, or if you need the chapter spoiled before you can make the decision to read it, please [ask me privately on tumblr](http://thatmysticbafflingwonder.tumblr.com/ask) and I will be happy to give you any spoilers you need.

Zach stands perfectly still. Eyes open. Taking in the scene before him.

Mrs. Graves lays sprawled across the floor, a deep pool of her sticky, drying blood fans out behind her, a gory plume of color reaching toward the wall on which her home phone is mounted. The receiver hangs, splattered in the same blood, swaying like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and marking a steadily slowing time. Mr. Graves is around the corner, deliberately placed upright in one of the living room armchairs, nearest to the fire. There is a smudged trail of his blood along the floor, leading to his current position from the stairs on which he was shot.

Zach continues to stand perfectly still. Eyes closed. Watching as his mind rewinds the events with ease.

The blood is swiped away. The Graves back on their feet. Time travels in reverse, until it’s just before the attack occurs.

When Zach presses the ‘play’ button, he enters the scene, taking the place of the killer.

He feels the weight of a gun in his hands. No. Not just a gun. A rifle. He hoists it up, lines up his shot, and takes out Mrs. Graves where she stands, dialing the phone to whatever family member or friend. She’s dispensed of with one shot. It happens so quickly that the husband doesn’t have time to clear the middle of the stairs, even, before Zach releases a bullet into the man’s heart, almost dead center. He crashes to the stairs with an unsatisfying thump.

“I want to show him the respect he deserves,” Zach says as he places the rifle down and moves toward the collapsed man.

He hoists Mr. Graves up under the arms and drags him, unceremoniously, across the room and into the furthest chair. He arranges Mr. Graves’ limbs until he is satisfied with the resulting posture and position. He remains kneeling when he’s finished, appreciating his work. No. Not appreciating. Giving homage.

“This is my design,” Zach sighs into the silence as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small blade.

“What do you see?” John Cho, senior FBI agent, in charge of the Behavioral Sciences Unit, asks, gently breaking into Zach’s mental reenactment.

Zach opens his eyes, squinting, but doesn’t make eye contact with John as he begins to offer his analysis.

“The killer came through the front door,” Zach says, “Quietly. Mrs. Graves was unaware of his presence before he fired the first shot. He likely removed his shoes before entering the house. He left no dirt or marks on the floor, which indicates he was either barefoot or had on clean socks. He likely placed his dirty shoes into a bag and carried them with him, but he may have left them on the porch.”

John motions for Simon Pegg, his latent print specialist, to go search outside the door for shoe marks or prints, without interrupting Zach’s story.

“He had a rifle,” Zach continues, “He shot Mrs. Graves once, before she could process what was happening. She didn’t even have time to jerk away from him. She was not of any importance to the killer. He just needed to dispose of her quickly before he could get to his intended.”

Zach moves around the corner and indicates the stairs. John follows.

“Mr. Graves.” He says, “His death was important. There was ceremony involved. Not in how he was killed. His actual death was quick. It was the staging afterwards. It was meant to show respect. Our killer venerated Mr. Graves, but felt unable to show it while Mr. Graves was alive. He felt unworthy, or, more likely, Mr. Graves made him to feel that way.”

“Like the others,” John prompts.

Zach nods, chin tight against his chest and leads John toward the chair Mr. Graves is positioned in.

“It fits the _modus operandi_ of the other scenes,” Zach confirms with a quick gesture towards Mr. Graves face and chest.

Like the four victims prior, all found over the course of the last sixteen months, there are intricate symbols carved into the exposed chest and face of the victim. Some in a language made up by the killer. Others from various alphabets, dead and living, strung together to form words in a multitude of languages. Haphazard words strung together in a desperate kind of prayer.

_Gliding wonders._

_Engirth me._

_Strong, sweet, supple._

_Persuasions of lovers._

_Quick rifle crack._

_Beauty of person._

_These please the soul well._

“It’s Whitman,” Zach says, hazarding a look at John. “Snippets from Poem of the Body and Poem of Salutation.”

“Okay,” John says, nodding. His mouth purses into a distasteful pout.

“He was wearing plastic,” Zoe Saldana, fiber specialist, says as she swishes her long ponytail back over her shoulder and continues to search Mr. Graves for errant materials. “Gloves too.”

“There should be more blood than there is,” Anton, their young coroner, tells them, prodding the entry wound in Mr. Graves’ chest with a gloved finger. “This chair is soaked, no doubt, but there should have been a veritable river of red covering the stairs and trailing along the floor to here.”

“There was a semi-jacket bullet embedded in the stairs,” Zoe tells John and Zach. “Just like with the others.”

Anton nods, “Which means when that bullet penetrated the vic’s chest, mushrooming and fragmenting, his heart would have basically disintegrated on contact.”

“There should be a lot more blood here,” John agrees, surveying the room.

Zach steps away from the three, moves back along the smeared blood trail. He drops into an easy crouch, long legs bent, knees to his chest, and he looks closely at the wooden staircase, lips pursed.

“He cleaned up,” He says after a moment.

Zoe scoffs, “Some clean up job.”

“There’s blood all over the floor, Zach,” Anton tells him.

Zach clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath before looking up.

“He cleaned the stairs,” Zach explains, “He laid Mr. Graves across a basin, to catch the excess blood, and he wiped the stairs clean.”

“Where’d the blood spatter come from there then?” Simon asks, rejoining the group.

Zach turns to the splatter, carefully strewn across the stairs and wall.

“He’s a regular Jackson Pollock,” He answers.

John steps closer.

“He painted it?” He asks for clarification, “Splatter technique?”

Zach quirks his brow, “Yes.”

“He didn’t do that at the other scenes,” Zoe says.

“No,” Zach agrees, barely resisting the urge to rub his gloved hand through his unruly hair, “He did not.”

John turns to look at Mr. Graves again.

“Well, this is different then.”

* * *

 

Once they’re back in the lab, Zoe, Anton, and Simon get to work.

Simon scans and uploads every print into AFIS, scouring its database and every other print database in the states, and a few overseas. The FBI has its fair share of friends, and Simon has even more, so he has pretty wide access to everything he needs. He’s an affable guy, the life of every party, something he thinks is especially hilarious since he spends his days surrounded by and analyzing death.

The databases are going to take days with this many prints to sort through, even with all the friends Simon has, so he wanders across to help Anton with whatever he needs.

Anton is possibly the youngest coroner the Bureau has ever employed. Of course, he’s also the top person in his field. He’s a whiz with autopsies, can do them one-handed in his sleep, but he still loves when Simon offers to give him a hand. He treats Simon as his assistant and the Englishman is all too happy to oblige him. Anton’s laugh is the funniest thing Simon’s ever heard and Simon makes work in the morgue less depressing. They’re a good combination.

Zoe watches them from the doorway, shaking her head, as she waits for Anton to cut off the deceased’s clothing so she can get to work herself.

Zoe exits their section of lab with her prize, smiling as their laughter wafts out of the door behind her, buoyed by their good moods, despite the horrible circumstances of their jobs, and she goes to her office to focus on her task at hand.

She strings up and combs through every fold and pocket on the victim’s clothes, looking for anything out of place, anything out of the ordinary. It takes four hours, working straight through her dinner break, but she finds a single shaving of blue plastic.

She holds it up to the light and grins to herself, whispering “Gotcha” into the silent, empty lab around her.

* * *

 

Zach stands, watching, as Zoe, Anton, and Simon theorize across the body of the deceased Mr. Graves.

He shifts on his feet, their voices barely a buzz in the back of his mind, as he puzzles over the words carved into the man’s skin.

If he closes his eyes, blinks them shut really slowly, he can imagine himself in the place of the killer again, carving.

“Could the words be some kind of message?” Anton’s wonderings break through Zach’s haze.

“No,” Zach says, opening his eyes again, sure of his answer.

His tone draws the attentions of all three forensic techs.

“Why are you so sure it’s not?” Zoe asks.

Zach blinks at her before turning back toward the body. He gestures, jerkily, at the writing.

“It’s not about what is written,” Zach tells them. “They mean something, but not because of what they say.”

He can feel the three techs looking at him and he’s sure that their expressions are incredulous, just as sure as he is that the words themselves are not the true point in this killer’s design.

He can feel the rationale in his head, floating just out of his reach. No matter how hard he tries, though, he cannot put the message and the meaning together.

He leaves the lab before anyone can ask any more questions. His head is pounding, he’s proving useless here, and he needs to get some fresh air in his lungs to wash away the acrid scent-memory of the copper tang of blood.

* * *

 

Zach sleeps in fits that night, waking sweat-soaked and trembling from horrors he can barely recall. Vague whispers as the Graves’ faces contort in pain. He cannot see the faces of the people he welcomes into his head, just the faces of their victims. It’s a ghastly exercise. One he would gladly give up altogether.

They’ve made no real headway in the case. It’s forcing everyone to act more than a little on edge and it’s making it impossible for Zach to get an uninterrupted night of sleep.

Sighing, Zach scrubs at his face. He hears his dogs snuffling downstairs and glances to the bedside table. He notes the time on his alarm clock – 4:25AM – and he gets up to strip the sheets from his bed and the clothes from his body. He throws a new top sheet down on the mattress, not bothering to remake the bed with all new linens tonight, and lays down on it naked. Curled like a question mark. An island floating in the middle of the mattress. The chill night air drying his sweat and making him shiver.

He’ll have a breakfast of Advil and coffee in the morning, before he heads in to Quantico to meet with his classes and then John.

Until then, he will hope for more peaceful slumber. Without dreams.

If he gets tired enough, he might just get his wish.

* * *

 

John stares at the big display board in his office. Tacked to the cork are photographs of the five carved victims of their unknown serial killer, displayed in order of when they had died. Not a single one of them resembles the one killed before and all are from different areas in the southeast. Close ups on the skin carvings show no clear progression in the writings. There’s literally nothing, looking at these people, that would tie them together and create a cohesive pattern to help John and his team catch their missing killer.

In a fit of pique, John throws his reading glasses at the board before running his hand through his hair and taking a series of calming breaths.

He checks the time, notes that it’s 4:25PM. Zach’s class will have ended ten minutes ago, so John stalks off in search of him, hoping for a change in perspective with the change in scenery.

* * *

 

Zach pops the fifth and sixth over-the-counter painkillers of the day into his mouth and leans over the water fountain, gulping the cool water like it can give him life. He supposes it technically can – water is, in essence, one of the foundations of life. This water isn’t magical though, so it can’t take the life Zach has and give him a new one. It’s a shame. He’s definitely having one of those days where he would give anything to be free from this cursed gift and these cursed headaches.

When he stands upright once again, John is standing in front of him. He tries his best to hide his flinch at being caught off guard.

“I was just heading to your office,” Zach tells him.

John shifts on his feet, agitated, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” He tells him.

Zach nods, understanding. John’s as patient as he absolutely has to be and not an ounce more. It seems that that already limited patience is running thin.

“Do I have your head in this game, Zach?” He asks suddenly, eyes narrowed.

And there it is. His patience snaps before Zach’s eyes, like one of the Fates’ golden threads.

“I am in this game,” Zach insists, rubbing at his face. “I’m _all_ in. That’s the problem.”

“The problem?” John asks. “The problem is I have five people dead, with seemingly no reason behind it, all joined by the same insane carvings, a single plastic shaving, and little to nothing else.”

Zach takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair, and releases the air from his lungs again on a frustrated sigh.

“I don’t know what you want from me here, exactly, John,” Zach tells him, eyes narrow. He’s using even less eye contact than usual in the face of this confrontation. “There’s only so much I can give.”

“You can give more than this,” John tells him before turning and leaving Zach awkwardly standing in the hall.

* * *

 

Dr. Karl Urban, psychiatrist and guest FBI Academy lecturer, waits patiently at the coffee kiosk just inside the FBI Academy grounds at Quantico. He doesn’t have a class for a few hours, but he has grading and paperwork to get through, so he’s come to the office early.

He’s a grouch without his morning coffee and he frequents this kiosk often enough that the cute barista has started looking for him, lighting up like a light bulb whenever she catches his smile in line. Today he compliments her new haircut as he pays and when she hands him his super-sized cup with a coy smile, he notices her name and phone number are scrawled across the side of it.

He smiles to himself as he takes the first sip, and then someone calls out his name.

“Karl.”

He turns and nods as John Cho approaches him.

“Good morning, John,” he says warmly.

“Just the man I was hoping to see,” John says with a smile.

Karl takes another sip of his drink and hums before motioning for John to walk with him.

“How can I help you this morning?” he asks.

“You’re friends with Zach Quinto,” John says.

Karl inclines his head. John has always favored cutting right to the point.

“I think it’s no secret that Zach and I are friendly,” he says.

“Have you –” John begins to ask, but Karl cuts him off with a gesture, sure of where John is about to go with his question.

“No, I haven’t formed any thoughts on his brain or his process. He’s not now, nor will he ever be, my patient, John. He’s my friend. We’re _becoming_ friends,” Karl tells him. “There’s a boundary between the personal and professional that I will never, _ever_ cross with him. Which you already know since I’ve already told you this.”

“Fair enough,” John says, “Fair enough.”

“What is this really about?” Karl asks.

John sighs before saying, “I was just trying to get a better feel for him. I was wondering if you had any concerns about him.”

Karl lets out a bark of laughter.

“Other than the _friendly_ concerns I raised when you first bothered his routine by dragging him into the field with you, you mean?” He asks, his Kiwi accent strengthening the more agitated he gets.

John looks toward the ground, sheepishly, and says, “Yeah, other than those.”

“He shouldn’t be out there,” Karl stresses, standing still as others walk around them through the hall, “It’s bad for him. It’s going to end in a very bad way.”

“He’s a big boy,” John tells him, probably tired of Karl’s molly-coddling.

“I know he is,” Karl says, indignant anger brewing, “but he’ll do whatever you ask of him without a regard…”

Karl stops speaking as abruptly as he stopped walking. He gives his head a quick shake before looking John square in the eyes.

“No,” he says, “I told you I won’t be involved in this as anything other than his friend. As his _friend_ , I don’t think you should have him out there. It’s not good for him. He’s going to get too close.”

“I won’t let that happen,” John promises.

Karl scoffs, “It’s already happening.”

John doesn’t respond to that for a moment.

When he speaks he acquiesces, “Okay, I won’t let it happen without me there to bring him back.”

Karl will forever be amazed at the sheer arrogance of John Cho. That John thinks himself enough to fight Zach’s monsters… It’s absurd.

Karl shakes his head once more, his disapproval already blatantly well known, before saying, “if you’re going to keep him out there, you should have him talking to someone.”

“Too bad he can’t talk to you,” John says, pushing the point uselessly one more time.

“He can talk to me all he wants,” Karl says as he resumes walking, “As. His. Friend. He can always talk to me. He needs a psychiatrist in his corner, though, John. What with everything you’re having him see and do.”

“Any suggestions then?” John asks, at last resigned.

Karl bites his lip as he thinks it over for a moment.

“I trained a guy – Christopher Pine. He’s young. He was one of my interns when I was an attending at Mercy. He’s completely brilliant, though. Genius levels of brilliant. The head of general surgery practically begged him to switch gears and become a surgeon, he was so precise with a scalpel, but his passion is the psyche. And, believe me when I tell you, he’s even better without a scalpel in his hand,” Karl says.

John looks intrigued.

“I don’t suppose he practices in the area?” He asks.

“As a matter of fact,” Karl informs him, “He has an office in Baltimore.”

* * *

 

Dr. Christopher Pine uncharacteristically does not have any clients scheduled for this early weekday morning. He has one appointment, a Roberto Orci, in the early evening, but his morning is free. As such, he sits at his desk and goes through the menial tasks of organizing his books and filling out his billing paperwork. While he is doing quiet work, solitary work, he fights against the silence surrounding him. He fills the office, with it’s high ceilings, dark woods, and jewel toned paints, with the equally dramatic musical compositions of Mozart, Haydn, Purcell, and Pärt. Requiems interspersed with Messes and tintinnabular lullabies.

A knocking at the office door disrupts the swelling cadence of Mozart’s _Requiem For Soloists, Chorus, And Orchestra, K. 626_. Christopher blinks open his eyes, which had fallen shut sometime during the second movement as he soaked in the glorious strains of the Kyrie. He stands as he pulls his mind and self once again into the present and he straightens the lines of his suit, buttoning his jacket, grounding himself once again.

There are two men waiting in the reception when he opens the mahogany door.

“Dr. Pine?” one asks.

“Yes,” Christopher answers, standing a bit straighter.

“My name’s John Cho. I’m head of the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI. And this is my colleague, Special Investigator Zach Quinto,” John says, offering his hand.

Christopher takes it without hesitation. John has a firm, calloused grip. His hand is warm and dry. The brush of Chris’ fingers across John’s wrist as they release one another’s hand indicates that his pulse is strong and even.

“How can I help you, Special Agent Cho?” Christopher asks, tilting his head just slightly.

“May we step inside your office?” John asks, gesturing to himself and the man standing off to the side behind him.

Chris turns his gaze to John’s companion. Zach is tall, lithe, and his hair is a little wild. He’s sporting thick-rimmed glasses and a thick growth of stubble across his jaw. He isn’t dressed like an officer, and he’s certainly not dressed like a special agent for the FBI. He’s dressed more like a sloppy civilian and he seems to be sulking, though trying somewhat not to show it, as he studiously does not make eye contact, or even glance, at either of them.

“Am I under some kind of suspicion?” Christopher asks.

He continues to look at Zach while John rattles off his apologies, swears that Christopher is in no way being questioned for any reason, and in fact, they actually need his help.

Christopher returns his gaze to John when he is finished rambling.

He offers a small smile, and says, “I would be happy to help in any way that he can,” before finally welcoming both men into his office.

“Thank you, doctor,” John says, gratitude sincere and cordial. John ushers Zach into the office before him.

Christopher pulls the heavy door shut behind them and turns the music player volume down to a whisper.

“Now,” he says, gesturing toward the chairs by his desk, “How may I help you gentlemen?”

“I’m sorry we didn’t call first, before dropping in, Dr. Pine,” John begins, taking one of the offered chairs. “A former colleague of yours, Dr. Karl Urban, lectures at the FBI Academy and recommended you to me. Zach here is a professor at the university himself, and a friend of Dr. Urban’s. Zach has been consulting on some cases for me and the Bureau and the Bureau and I believe that he may benefit from speaking to someone regularly. You, specifically, if you were amenable to such an arrangement. The Bureau would pay you as a consultant.”

“A consultant for the consultant,” Zach mumbles.

Christopher looks over at Zach and watches as he paces the office, touching nothing, but taking everything in.

“What was that, Mr. Quinto?” Christopher asks.

The direct address draws Zach’s attention toward Christopher, but it does not earn any eye contact.

“The FBI is afraid I’m a loose canon, it would seem,” Zach answers.

John goes to respond, but Christopher holds up a hand and silences him.

“Are you a loose canon?” Christopher asks.

“The loosest,” Zach replies with a sardonic smirk.

John lets out an aggrieved sigh.

“Special Agent Cho,” Christopher says, turning his attention back to John, “I think it may be best if I spend some time with Mr. Quinto now. Before agreeing to this employment, I would like to see if this relationship might be beneficial.”

John nods, “Of course.”

He gathers his things and heads toward the door.

“I’ll just head to the café down the street for some lunch,” he tells Zach. “Come and meet me when you’re done.”

Zach nods, his attentions turned to one of the bronze sculptures displayed around Christopher’s office: a stag, head bent in challenge.

Christopher walks John out and when he returns, Zach has moved on to look at the view out of the office windows. Christopher approaches the windows and takes up the space beside Zach.

They stand together, silently, until Zach says, “I don’t need anyone else in my head.”

Christopher hums before replying, “How do you mean?”

Zach sighs, “What I do. What John has me doing for him… My imagination is a powerful curse. I can see the design in the things these killers have done, enter their minds, help lead John where he needs to go before the evidence itself can.”

“Pure empathy,” Christopher says. He is careful to just let a little of his intrigue bleed into his tone.

Zach glances at Christopher’s tie and nods.

“That must make you quite an asset to John’s team,” Christopher says while slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He leans back on his heels and waits for Zach’s response.

He doesn’t wait long.

“It would appear so,” Zach says.

“It must also make it quite confusing for you,” Christopher says, continuing to stare out the window ahead of them.

He catches Zach glance over in his peripheral vision.

“I am not confused,” Zach says, voice clear and lacking any trace of defensive vehemence that Christopher may have expected.

Christopher looks over at Zach, sudden enough in his movement to catch Zach’s gaze before he can divert it again.

“What are you then, Mr. Quinto?” Christopher asks.

“I’m Zach,” Zach replies. “You should call me Zach, Dr. Pine.”

Christopher nods, “Very well. You should call me Christopher, then.”

Zach’s answering nod is jerky.

“I’m compressing under the weight,” he finally offers after minutes of silence.

“Like Atlas,” Christopher notes, earning another glance from Zach, caught again in his peripheral vision.

It’s a grand comparison. One far grander than Christopher suspects Zach would ever agree with, if his reactions and shifting body language have taught Christopher anything about him so far, but Zach doesn’t protest against its use.

For all his appearances as a man buckling under the weight of the celestial orb, Christopher can clearly see that those appearances are misleading.

 _No,_ he corrects himself internally, curling his fingers into his thighs, hands still hidden in his pockets. _Not Atlas. More like Prometheus._

Christopher swipes his tongue across his lower lip.

“It must breed a great deal of fear, welcoming these outsiders into your mind, especially when their motivations very clearly are so unlike your own,” Christopher says.

Zach looks at him, blinking against the truth in Christopher’s words.

Before Zach can reply, Christopher removes his hands from his pockets, and gently guides Zach back in the direction of the door.

“We’re done here?” Zach asks, thrown off by the sudden shift in the room.

“For today,” Christopher tells him.

He leans around Zach and opens the door for him before flashing him a small smile.

“I would like to set up a standing weekly appointment with you,” he says, “Would Tuesday nights be good? Say around seven?”

Zach looks at him head on, blinking again, “I don’t understand.”

Christopher’s smile widens slightly.

“John Cho wants you to talk to someone and I think we could work well together,” He explains.

“You figured that out in less than half an hour of mostly silence?” Zach asks, incredulous. Christopher can hear the defensiveness missing earlier running beneath the surface of Zach’s voice, like a murmuring stream.

“I figured that out in less than half a minute,” Christopher tells him, truthfully.

Zach shakes his head, quiet.

“Seven on Tuesdays would be fine,” he says after some time passes.

“Excellent,” Christopher says.

He watches as Zach turns and leaves without even a second glance.

Christopher closes the office door then, hand lingering on the handle, before he crosses to his desk. He turns the music back up to the preferred volume just in time to hear the swell of the Swedish Radio Choir singing Rachmaninov’s Vespers, _O gladsome night_ , then he sits at his desk and writes in his appointment with Zach on his calendar.

* * *

 

John knocks on yet another of Christopher Pine’s front doors later that evening – this one, the door to his private residence. The knock is expected, though. Invited, actually. And the welcome is apparent on Dr. Pine’s face when he opens the door.

“Good evening, Special Agent Cho,” Christopher greets, welcoming John into his home.

“Good evening, Dr. Pine,” John is greets in return. “Please, call me John.”

“If you will call me Christopher,” He stipulates while taking John’s coat.

When John agrees, Christopher smiles and ushers him into the dining room.

“I’m glad you could come for dinner on such short notice,” Christopher tells him, pulling out John’s chair for him.

“I’m glad I could make it too,” John tells him. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your culinary expertise.”

Christopher’s smile widens. “Karl has been giving all of my secrets away, hasn’t he.”

John laughs in return while swearing, “Only the nice ones.”

They exchange a few more pleasantries before Christopher fills John’s glass with Chardonnay and excuses himself to the kitchen to finish plating their meal.

“I hope you like pork,” Christopher says when he reenters the dining room with their plates.

“I love pork,” John assures him.

He lets out a small gasp when Christopher lays his plate before him.

“This is exquisite,” John says, dragging his eyes away from the artfully displayed plate just long enough to glance at Christopher, awed. “What exactly are we eating this evening?”

“We’re having an apple and pear stuffed pork tenderloin served on top of an onion and potato puree with a side of oven-roasted Brussels sprouts drizzled with a cider vinegar reduction and garlic pear aioli,” Christopher explains.

John blinks, completely blown away by the presentation and the smells coming from the plate in front of him.

“It is stunning,” he says. “And it smells divine. If it is anywhere near as delicious as it seems, you may be hard pressed to get rid of me.”

“Far be it from me to deprive a man of quality food,” Christopher teases, taking his seat. “With compliments like that, and before you’ve even tasted it, I assure you that you are more than welcome for dinner any time you like.”

John cuts into the medallion of meat, careful to get a portion of the stuffing on his fork with the meat itself, and he takes his first bite.

He chews and swallows with a feeling of great reverence before bowing his head a little to Christopher.

“This is masterful,” he tells him. “The best pork I’ve ever had.”

Christopher’s smile is small, almost secretive, and his eyes are pleased.

“Thank you,” Christopher tells him. “I am glad.”

They discuss the food while they eat, the different techniques that Christopher used and why. Only when they’re finished, each with a brandy in hand, does John get to the actual point of his visit.

“How did you find Zach Quinto?” John asks.

Christopher sighs and leans back in his chair.

“I found him intriguing,” He says.

“He’s a brilliant mind,” John agrees. “Very unique in his abilities.”

Christopher nods in agreement.

“Do you think you might be able to provide the grounding that he needs,” John asks then.

Christopher gives him an appraising look and sips at his brandy before nodding.

“I think he and I will be a very good fit,” Christopher tells him.

John grins.

“Good,” He says. “I’m glad.”

When John leaves sometime later, his belly full and his mind more at peace than when he arrived, he makes a mental note to thank Karl with a case of his favorite imported beer for recommending Christopher Pine and bringing him into their lives.

* * *

 

Zach arrives at the Behavioral Science wing the next morning and is startled to find Christopher there.

“Is it Tuesday already?” he asks, more sardonic than he would usually be since his head is still aching.

Christopher offers him a small smile, just the quirk of the edge of his mouth, in reply.

“I asked him to step in as a fresh set of eyes on the Southeast Scribbler case,” John explains, ushering them both into his office.

“The Southeast Scribbler?” Zach asks, the moniker leaving a foul taste on his tongue.

John winces a little in sympathy before explaining.

“At the last scene, some idiot rookie in the local police department took a personal picture of the writing on the corpse and instagramed it, of all things. He has been dealt with accordingly,” He says. “Unfortunately, our dear friend, Alice Eve, over at The Tattler, got her filthy hands on the thing and made it public before we even knew it existed. She’s named our unsub and the stupid sobriquet has caught on. It’s all over the news now.”

Zach glances over at Christopher and notes the look of distaste barely hidden on his face at this news. That earns him a few points in Zach’s book, despite the fact that his main purpose, as consultant to the Bureau, is to psychoanalyze Zach and report back.

“How can I help with all of this?” Christopher asks, addressing both John and Zach.

“You can offer a much needed change in perspective,” John tells him giving Zach a significant look.

Christopher turns his attentions fully on Zach then and Zach clears his throat, nervously.

“I can’t seem to see past the flawed characters and red herring side stories to the actual plot structure of the Scribbler’s story,” Zach says.

A writing metaphor seems apt, given the Scribbler’s proclivities, and Zach runs with it, watching Christopher’s mouth twitch at the corner once again.

“I’d be happy to help in any way I can,” Christopher says, echoing what he told them both just the day before.

Zach isn’t yet sure how sincere Christopher’s being when he makes that offer. There’s a chance he’s politely humoring them. Either way, they’re running out of options and they’ll take whatever help they can get.

* * *

 

Whatever insights Christopher might have come up with are not shared with the group before the Scribbler makes his next kill.

There had been months between the last two victims, so a kill this soon means he’s stepping up the game, and it ratchets up the stress of everyone in the Behavioral Science department at least five notches.

John’s team is contacted a few days later about a man strung up like a starfish in an abandoned warehouse in Arlington, Virginia. The general description of the scene shares zero similarities with any of the previous scenes: all previous victims were found in their homes, displayed seated in an illusion of comfort by the fireplace, if the house has one. The only similarity with this scene is the deceased’s skin has been etched with words.

“This isn’t right,” Zach says, more agitated than usual as he enters the warehouse, closely followed by John and Zoe.

“We know that,” Zoe says, attempting to assuage him, but Zach brushes her off, rounding back on them like a cornered animal.

“Zach,” John starts, but Zach cuts him off.

“No,” He shakes his head vehemently, “The Scribbler was _honoring_ his victims with his etchings. He was paying _homage_ to them.”

He whirls back around and throws his arms out, gesturing angrily at the victim on display.

“This isn’t homage. This is scorn. Derision. This is _hate_ ,” Zach tells them. “Whoever did this was making a mockery of this victim _and_ the Scribbler’s work. These are not the same people…”

Zach trails off but paces back toward John and Zoe.

He stops in front of them and shakes his head just once. When he looks up and actually makes eye contact with the two of them in turn, it’s like a fog has lifted from his face.

“The Scribbler is working up to something. None of the victims so far were his actual intended target. All of this has been a means to an end: practice, for the real victim he’s been leading up to killing. Whoever he kills next will be his last. Whoever he kills next will be his true target. Someone incredibly important to him, someone he believes he owes everything to, someone he wants to immortalize in his worship…”

He trails off again and blinks rapidly, something new clearing in his mind, and then he’s pushing back past John and Zoe to leave.

“Where are you going?” John calls out, happy to finally have reached some kind of breakthrough, however incomplete it may be.

“Back to the office,” Zach yells back. “There’s something in the writing I need to check on.”

John and Zoe give one another a look before turning back to the crime scene at hand to process it. Copycat or not, there’s a fresh body they need to bring in.

* * *

 

Hours later, Zach is deep in thought, staring at the photo board in John’s office, when a gentle knock sounds at the door. Startled, he turns too quickly, aggravating his headache, and he winces.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Christopher says from the door.

“It’s fine,” Zach tells him before asking, “Where’s John?”

“He’s been held up at the new crime scene,” Christopher answers. “He told me you came back here to work on a theory you were formulating and he asked if I would stop by to be your sounding board for the evening.”

Zach gives him a look and winces again.

“I brought food,” Christopher says, holding up a soft travel cooler. “It may help with that headache.”

Zach sighs, resigned, and nods, welcoming Christopher in.

Christopher takes the seat beside Zach on the couch and puts the bag down on the coffee table before retrieving the food from it.

“I was making dinner for myself when I received John’s call,” he explains, pulling out two individual containers of portioned dinners and a pair of forks and napkins. “I come bearing brioche toast topped with pan-seared foie gras and a chardonnay-grapefruit reduction, with an apple puree.”

Zach’s eyebrows shoot up at the description and they climb even higher once the dishes are uncovered and the smell hits him.

“Are you some kind of gourmet?” He asks, peering in at the meticulously arranged food.

Christopher smiles, for real, none of that suppressed smirk business from the previous day.

“I have a passion for food,” He explains.

“Obviously,” Zach agrees, taking the offered fork and dish and digging in.

“It would be better with wine,” Christopher assures him, “but we are on the clock right now.”

Zach hums around his mouthful, acknowledging Christopher’s words and appreciating the food all at once. It’s even more delicious than Christopher’s description of it and Zach makes his approval known by voicing a series of pleased groans.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Christopher says.

They eat in silence and Zach makes a point to savor the meal and not rush through it. It is the kind of food that should be savored, after all, and he doesn’t want to appear completely rude.

He notes, when he is finished, that Christopher looks ecstatic, in that subdued way of his, and he thanks him properly, with words and brief eye contact, for sharing his meal.

“It was my pleasure,” Christopher assures him before redirecting them back to business by gesturing at the photo board. “Now what did you find?”

Zach takes a big sip from his water glass, giving himself a moment to recollect his thoughts, before delving into the newest developments in the Scribbler’s case.

By the time he’s finished recounting the state of the new crime scene, the obvious ways it was not staged by the same killer, and the revelations it lead to, his head is back to pounding.

Christopher notices his wince and frowns a little.

“How long have you had this headache?” He asks.

Zach sighs.

“This particular one?” He asks. “On and off for about the last week.”

Christopher tsks then and reaches out his hands. He stops with them hovering, just short of framing Zach’s face.

“May I?” Christopher asks.

Zach is sure he looks nervous. He feels nervous. Like his heart is racing, all of a sudden. But he nods his head a little and Christopher places his hands on his temples, touch gentle.

“I’m just going to do a little massage technique I learned years ago,” Christopher explains.

Zach is silent, waiting, and as soon as Christopher begins moving his hands, he let’s out a hum of approval.

“Feels good, yes?” Christopher asks, voice a soft rumble.

Zach mumbles something in the affirmative, leaning more toward Christopher, pressing harder into his touch.

Zach’s not entirely sure how long they stay like that. He slips into a trance-like state sometime during the massage though and Christopher taps his shoulder lightly to rouse him from it.

“I’m so sorry,” Zach begins to say, apologizing for his dozing, but Christopher cuts him off with an upheld hand.

“Did it help?” He asks.

Zach blinks a few times, taking note that his building photosensitivity is gone and he’s feeling loose and okay for the first time since this case began.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough with sleep and full of wonder. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Christopher tells him.

“Does massage therapy come as a part of your psychiatric treatment package?” Zach asks. The snark usually present in his voice is turned way down in that question, his relief seeping into his tone and tingeing it with gratitude.

“Maybe,” Christopher answers, grinning, “On a case by case basis.”

Zach ducks his head, feeling his cheeks heat with an inexplicable blush.

When he lifts his chin, Christopher gestures to the photo board again before instructing Zach to give it another look and tell him what he sees.

Zach complies, feeling the truth of the Scribbler’s design slide into place as soon as he sweeps his eyes across the photographs displayed.

“He was working on his penmanship,” Zach sighs. “It was never about what he was writing, but how he was writing. He was working on his penmanship, on the ceremony of the death, to perfect it for his main target.”

“That’s good work,” John’s voice drifts in the room before he enters it himself.

“We’re looking for someone who has no formal education beyond, probably, an elementary reading level. That’s why there’s the focus on penmanship. Whoever the Scribbler is, they’re going after whoever took over their education informally. This person means everything to them, this person is the Scribbler’s obsession. He wants to honor this victim in death in a way he could not manage to in life.”

“That’s really good, Zach,” John says, face flushed with pleasure at this turn of events.

“Zoe is looking at the plastic shaving again, seeing if she can narrow down the use and geographical area on this one,” John explains. “And Anton and Simon are processing the Copycat’s victim.”

John turns back to the board and gives it another once over before asking Zach and Christopher.

“Is there any way to determine a connection between the five victims already found?” John asks.

It’s a question he’s been asking all week, but it’s one he’s apparently willing to ask again, in light of this new breakthrough.

“Not that I can see,” Zach says, honestly, “But I didn’t see the meaning in the writing until I saw the antithesis of it in the new victim, so things should hopefully continue to becomes clearer as we process the new case.”

It’s an olive branch from Zach to John, this offer of hope. It’s Zach’s apology for being a shit about things all week, and John takes it with a nod and more praise for the good job they’ve done so far. The praise is John’s way of returning the apology. They’ve _both_ been shits about this case, which they’re willing to acknowledge to one another now that they’ve made a little progress in their investigation. Zach accepts the return apology from John with a nod of his own before they get back to working the case.

* * *

 

“John Doe’s kidneys are missing,” Anton declares as John, Zach, and Dr. Pine all walk into his morgue.

He’s in the middle of the autopsy, hands full of stomach. He glances at their faces for any signs of squeamishness or dizziness, but not even Dr. Pine seems thrown off by the smell or sight before him.

Simon glides over to him with a scalpel and an evidence jar. Anton takes the scalpel, gratefully, letting Simon hold onto the jar beneath his hands. He cuts the stomach free from the esophagus and intestines and empties its contents into the jar for screening.

“They’re missing?” John asks.

Anton nods, turning to weigh the stomach contents and then the empty stomach. He reads the weights aloud and Simon inputs them in the written chart.

“A good chunk of his liver is missing as well,” Simon tells them.

Anton nods before adding, “And they were all removed with surgical precision while the victim was still alive.”

“Black market organ trading?” Zoe asks, joining the crowd.

Anton gives her a weary look but says, “It’s possible.”

“Forgive me,” Christopher asks, intrigued, “I thought the black market organ trade was a myth?”

Anton sighs. He wishes he could run his hands through his hair, but he’s covered in bowel fluids, so he settles for closing his eyes and taking a deep calming breath.

“According to a 2012 World Health Organization report, at least one human organ is sold on the black market somewhere in the world every hour,” Simon says.

Anton nods before adding, “And most of the organs sold are kidneys. _However_ , it’s usually the kidney’s owner offering the sale, and it’s only ever of one kidney, not both. The idea of waking in the bathtub with no idea how you got there with only one kidney, or none, _that_ is the myth.”

“Mostly,” Simon corrected. “There are some seriously disturbed people out there, as we all well know.”

Anton concedes that point.

“So, should we be looking at donor registries to see if anyone’s removed themselves for supposed miraculous reasons in the last forty-eight hours?” John asks.

Anton shrugs, “It might be a start, though I don’t know if it will produce any results…”

“Are the lungs intact?” Zach asks suddenly.

Anton glances at Simon before turning back to Zach. The lungs were one of the first things they catalogued, just after the heart.

“They were severed before death, but they are both still here,” he says, carefully.

“There’s something wrong with them?” Zach asks, looking increasingly ill.

“The guy had emphysema, early stages,” Simon answers.

Zach ducks his head, blinking rapidly, looking like he might throw up. John and Dr. Pine hover beside him, concerned.

“What is it, Zach?” Zoe asks.

“He’s not selling the organs, he’s eating them,” Zach answers.

“What?” Simon asks, sounding aghast.

“Whoever killed this victim harvested the organs to consume them,” Zach explains, wincing. “He would have taken the lungs, if they hadn’t been unclean, but he left them because they were inedible… This wasn’t a Copycat killing. There were completely different motivating factors behind this murder. The killer may have gift wrapped this victim in the trappings of the Scribbler, but his reasons for killing are all in stark contrast to the Scribbler’s…”

Zach takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts before continuing.

“The Scribbler chose people to honor with his ritual. He’s building up to his most important honor of all. The next kill will be the last kill and it will be the one he has been practicing for,” Zach tells them. “But the ones before, in his mind, he still paid tribute to. He didn’t pick his victims at random. They all meant something to him, with the first one earning the least of his respect, but still earning respect. And every victim thereafter earning more than the previous victim. His victims all mean something to him. They’ll be people he saw regularly. Maybe he works in retail or a bank. Something where these people came in contact with him enough that their respect for him earned his obsessive respect in return.”

“Okay,” John says, nodding.

“Mrs. Graves was on the telephone when she was killed,” Zoe says then, drawing everyone’s attention to her.

“Yeah,” Simon agrees.

“Well,” Zoe wonders aloud, looking at her colleagues, “Maybe they all have the same phone service or cable provider? A full analysis of the composition of the plastic shaving just came back. It’s industrial grade, the kind you find coating electrical wires. It could be any kind of electrician, but if the unsub works in phone or cable, he would likely talk to regular customers and even have access to the victims’ addresses.”

John nods.

“Zoe, take Dr. Pine and start checking all of the victims’ utility records,” he says. “We’ll be in to join you soon.”

“On it,” Zoe says, smiling at the good doctor, before leading him back to her office to make a few calls.

“What does all of this mean for the new victim?” Anton hazards to ask.

Zach takes a deep breath when all eyes fall to him again.

“Whoever killed this guy is going to be near impossible to find,” Zach explains. “He’s truly an intelligent psychopath, a sadist, no less. He’s probably killed before, though not likely in this manner, and he’ll likely never kill this way again. He will kill again, though… Without anything to go on, without any actual evidence, or a string of other deaths to compare it to, we may never know who did this.”

Anton studies Zach before nodding and turning back to the body on his table.

“Well then,” John says, sounding both excited and exhausted, “I guess we better leave Anton and Simon to their work on this case and go help Zoe and Christopher with that record search.”

* * *

 

Eric Bana rubs at the bandage on his hand while pushing the grocery cart down the cereal aisle. It’s early morning and there aren’t many people in the store other than Eric and the store employees. No one to really notice his hand, or question it.

The cut on his palm itches more than it stings and he wishes he could scratch it good and hard without making the wound worse.

 _Let it be_ , his father’s voice rings in his head.

He stops fussing with it and dutifully continues on his way with his shopping.

He gets all the necessities quickly and flirts with the checkout girl as she scans his thing. He pays quickly, says his goodbyes, packs his car quickly, and goes.

Eric bypasses his exit on the freeway and heads south five more exits before taking exit eleven and hanging a right. His father’s house, a small ranch on the main road in town, is a five-minute drive from the freeway. He parks in the driveway and grabs the bags of groceries before heading inside.

“Dad?” He calls out.

His dad won’t answer. He never answers. He _can’t_ answer. He hasn’t been able to answer for a long time. Not since the brain tumor worsened. Not since words ceased to fall within his grasp.

But he smiles at Eric, despite not seeming to recognize him, when Eric walks through the living room to the kitchen. And he hums softly to himself, for his guest’s benefit, while Eric puts the groceries away.

Eric removes his CableNet hat, part of his required job uniform, and places it on the hook by the back door before he moves to prepare breakfast for the both of them.

He hums along with his father, a song his father has been singing to him since he was a child and first welcomed into his father’s home after being rescued from the streets he was abandoned to by his biological family.

“You don’t have to worry about anything any more, Eric,” he remembers his dad saying. “This is your home now. I will be your father and teacher. You will grow up to do great things.”

His father had saved him. His father had taught him everything. When schools failed him, just like his biological parents, his father stepped in and guided him. He taught Eric when no one else could. He was a beacon of knowledge in a sea of ignorance, leading Eric to the shore of hope.

Eric smiles to himself while he makes their meals, lost in his memories, until he catches sight of the newspaper splayed out on the kitchen counter where the visiting nurse left it the day before.

The front-page headline reads: THE SOUTHEAST SCRIBBLER HAS KILLED AGAIN?

Eric almost cuts his undamaged hand when he slams down the knife he was using to slice their bread.

Someone is lumping his works in with the horrors committed against that man left strung up like a Christmas tree topper?

Eric squeezes his damaged hand and shudders at the pain that shoots through him. A physical release of the anguish building within.

 _Do not let them get to you_ , His father’s voice rings in his head.

He sighs.

“You’re right, Dad,” Eric says in reply, out loud to the man still humming, “I am honoring you.”

 _You’re always honoring me_.

“I know,” Eric says on a whisper, smile returning. “I will continue with my worship.”

He takes a few calming breaths before shoving the newspaper in the garbage and returning to humming as he finishes making their breakfasts. He and his father will need their strength for later, after all.

* * *

 

John is typing away at his computer, Zach sleeping fitfully on the chair in the corner, while Christopher dozes more serenely in the chair opposite Zach.

It had taken them three hours to get all of the utility bills sorted from the mail at the five victim’s houses and it had taken them another three hours to figure out it was the same telephone support office for the same cable provider, CableNet, that tended to all five of them.

Zach and Christopher had both drifted off to sleep about an hour before. Zoe is back in her office, making a few more calls in the light of day, and John is left scouring the personnel list alone.

“The Scribbler is a universal donor!”

Anton’s outburst as he enters the office wakes both Zach and Christopher and startles John.

“Sorry,” he rushes through his apology, breathless in his excitement, “But there was foreign blood in the carvings on Mr. Graves that I hadn’t found before because, while we took samples before cleaning the body for autopsy, we never bothered to make sure it was all his.”

He turns to Zach and rushes on, “I think that’s why he cleaned the scene with the Graves. He was bleeding too.”

Zach blinks up at Anton, bleary-eyed and slow to process what he is hearing on such little sleep. After a minute though, he is nodding, much more alert.

“That would make sense,” He agrees.

“But why would he cut himself this time when he never has before?” John asks. “You said yourself, he was getting more precise with each victim, not more reckless.”

Zach looks over at the photo board, eyes narrow like it’s the first time he’s really seeing it and not the hundredth time he’s consulted it in the last twenty-four hours, and John watches his features suddenly open up as the answer dawns on him.

“He’s holding the blade while he carves,” Zach announces. “It’s the only way to get the precision he needs with the tip of the knife he already has. It’s like a pencil. The closer he holds it to the tip, the more control he has over the implement he’s using.”

Christopher watches Zach as he explains his thought process, face thinly veiling his obvious appreciation for Zach’s mind, and John turns to survey the photographs himself.

It isn’t as clear to him as it is to Zach, but he can see what Zach means, how each new victim’s etchings seem better rendered than the last.

“That makes sense,” Anton agrees, redirecting everyone’s attentions to him. “The Copycat’s handwriting is much cleaner than the Scribbler’s, like he used a precision tool to write. A scalpel, maybe. A more unwieldy knife would make the Scribbler’s writing more labored, messier.”

He takes a breath, let’s everyone think that over, before he continues.

“Zoe’s crosschecking the list of personnel for blood type,” Anton explains further, “If he’s a universal donor, he’s probably donated before. If not to the blood bank, then to a relative…”

“Or the object of his worship,” Christopher points out.

John nods at how easily things are beginning to slide into place before the office erupts in a flurry of calls and searches. Everyone’s fully awake once again. Everyone’s eager to catch this son of a bitch and put this damn case to rest.

* * *

 

Eric sits before his father, plate in hand to feed the man he owes everything to his last meal. His last supper.

He’s careful as he spoons the food to his father’s mouth. Small bites. Small tastes. His father eats them up, happy. Always happy.

Eric sighs at the vacant look in his father’s eyes as he dutifully eats.

“Soon,” he promises, wiping his father’s chin gently. “This evening.”

His father does not respond to his words, just continues to eat what he is offered.

Eric remembers a time when his father was the ruler of this town. He remembers a time when his father held the respect of everyone, a respect owed to him, a respect he more than earned. Now, Eric is the only one who seems to remember him.

“They will all remember you,” Eric promises, offering his father a sip of water. A small sip. Then another.

 _Not the way you do_ , his father’s voice rings in his head.

“No,” Eric agrees. “That’s true. None can love you like I do. They can try though. They will see.”

* * *

 

“Eric Bana, thirty-eight, from Turing, South Carolina,” Zoe says, entering John’s office. “He’s been employed at CableNet for the last three years in their southeast office providing telephone support with the occasional stint in the company truck to provide in-person support as well. Company logs indicate that he spoke to each of the victims on more than one occasion in the past twelve months. He also is a universal blood donor. He donated last month, in fact, at the local hospital’s blood drive.”

John turns to Zach, asking him without words to weigh in on this new information.

Zach shrugs, “It sounds like he could be our guy.”

“Oh, he definitely is,” Zoe assures them, flipping her tablet around to show a news article from 1985. “Local news in Turing made a big deal when a Mr. Leonard Nimoy took in an abandoned boy, and fostered him as his own son. Mr. Nimoy’s a local hero, a major philanthropist, he practically built Turing from the ground up. He’s an artist, a big advocate of the arts in education and the importance of informal learning experiences. He took over Eric’s education as soon as he took him into his home, a major proponent of the homeschooling movement in Turing. And he did all that while infusing the local school system with a steady enough cash flow that they named the local library after him.”

Zach blinks, nodding jerkily.

“That’s him,” He says.

“Everyone’s sure?” John asks the room.

Zoe watches as Christopher joins in nodding with Zach and Simon shrugs and tilts his head to Zoe as if to say ‘she’s spelled it all out, it has to be.’

She gives Simon a small smile, one he returns, cheeks flushing slightly.

“Okay then,” John announces with a clap of his hands, drawing everyone’s attentions back to him, “Let’s send out a team to get this son of a bitch. Hopefully it’s not too late.”

* * *

 

Eric has all of his equipment laid out and he has had all the practice he could stand.

He is finally ready.

He kneels before his father, his head bent briefly, before he looks up at his father’s smiling face and frames it in his hands.

“My father,” He releases the words on a breath, rubs Leonard’s cheeks with his thumbs, in reverence. “You said to me once that I was your legacy. I would be what people remembered of you when you were gone… You’re still here though, and they have somehow forgotten. It’s my turn now. My turn to make _your_ legacy. You will be remembered. You will be revered.”

There was a time once, when Eric was still small, still new in Leonard’s home, when Eric found him in the basement, brush in hand, flinging paint at a canvas before swiping a stroke from the corner across. The colors clashed in a way that they actually complimented one another. It was beautiful.

When Leonard turned to find Eric standing, watching, he had smiled and offered his son the brush. He taught Eric to create things. To create _beauty_. To pull it from a blank canvas and make the world see something it had been missing before.

Eric had grown and lost sight of those teachings. But then he’d lost Leonard’s voice. Leonard’s memory. Leonard’s _self_.

And he resolved to bring them forth again. Maybe not exactly the way they were before. But he had a blank canvas now. He would make them visible. He would make them seen.

“Darest thou now, O Soul,” Eric begins reciting his benediction, his father’s favorite Whitman poem. “Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region, where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to follow?”

Leonard smiles wider down at him and hums the same song from lunch – John Adams’ musical arrangement of Whitman’s “The Wound-Dresser.”

Eric stares up at his father one moment more before he releases his face and grabs the local anesthetic.

It hadn’t been easy getting his hands on the vial of this stuff. If his physician had been more attentive when Eric went to go get that ingrown nail removed from his foot, he would have noticed the vial go missing. But the doctor was old. Older than Eric’s father, even.

With the other people, the practice canvases, Eric never needed to take this measure to control pain. He simply ended their life first and got to work once they went limp.

His father deserves more ceremony than that. Those were just the dress rehearsals.

Eric will honor his father with the words of his favorite poet, the words that inspired Leonard’s greatest creations, the best art Eric has ever seen. He will honor him with the words, allow his father to experience that honor with the end of his life. And then he will help him to pass into the Glory. And use the paint seeping from his father’s veins to create Leonard’s one last canvas masterpiece.

Eric holds the anesthetic vial in his hand, filling the needle he also pilfered, and presses the tip of it gently into two-inch intervals just under the surface of his father’s chest.

“My father,” He says again, voice soothing as Leonard fusses.

Eric scratches his nails across his father’s chest and, satisfied with the lack of reaction to the stimulus, he casts aside the needle and reaches for his knife.

He just carving ‘O Soul’ when the front door of the house kicks in and he’s surrounded by a SWAT team, guns drawn. Startled, he slips with the blade, reopening his own wound on his hand, and knicking his father’s chest deeper than intended, bringing forth a pained cry from Leonard’s lips.

“No,” Eric gasps. Appalled at the blooming blood trailing thicker than it should down his father’s torso. “I did not honor. I need to honor.”

He continues to babble about his foiled worship while he watches, filled with insurmountable regret, as the emergency personnel clean and bandage his father up, whisking him away from him forever.

* * *

 

“The Scribbler has finally been caught,” Christopher says during his first Tuesday evening therapy session with Zach.

He is careful to phrase his words as a statement and not a question. He knows the SWAT team was sent to retrieve Eric Bana from his foster father’s last known address. He was there when the call was made, before John ordered his entire team to head home. They were all in need of well-deserved sleep, and Christopher hadn’t heard from or seen any of them since the day before.

He’s seen the news though.

“Yes,” Zach agrees, taking the offered seat across from Christopher’s usual chair. “They caught him in the act, Mr. Nimoy still alive. It was lucky we discovered him in time.”

“Do you believe it really came down to luck?” Christopher asks.

Zach tilts his head, considering, before replying, “In some measure, it’s all luck.”

“Do you doubt your usefulness to John’s department?” Christopher asks.

Zach half scoffs, half laughs. It’s a mirthless sound and he seems to wince at the tail end of it.

“I think I must be useful, since John keeps me around,” Zach says, candidly. “Though I was not nearly as useful on this case as I should have been.”

Christopher studies him a moment before saying, “How do you measure your worth to John?”

“By how quickly I can provide the insights he needs,” Zach says after his own brief pause.

“By that unit of measure, I would have been completely useless to this case then,” Christopher says, spreading his arms wide as he leans back in his chair. “Would you say I was useless?”

Zach hesitates before answering, “No. I wouldn’t.”

The truth in the statement is not offered begrudgingly, but with a tone of surprise.

Christopher knew from the first moment they met that Zach did not actually want anything to do with him. It had been obvious throughout their first meeting. And then their second. But Christopher had proven his value to Zach, in more ways than one. Now Zach sounds amazed to realize his gut reaction isn’t to deny Christopher had provided anything but a distraction.

“You were a clarifying lens,” Zach elaborates without prompting. “One through which I could focus my mind.”

Christopher hums, turning Zach’s words over in his head. Watching Zach wince once more.

“Has your headache returned?” He asks.

Zach’s nod is reluctant.

Christopher crosses to his desk then, retrieving two pills and pouring some water from his silver pitcher into a glass before crossing back over to Zach.

He passes the pills and drink over and notes a faint air of disappointment about Zach as his gaze lingers on Christopher’s fingers.

Christopher suppresses the knowing smirk that threatens to turn up the corners of his mouth. He has no plans to touch Zach tonight, not even to shake his hand. Especially now that he knows Zach desires the touch, even in just a small, medicinal capacity.

“Thank you,” Zach says. He then swallows the pills, without so much as a question about what they are, and he finishes his water.

“You’re welcome,” Christopher says before taking the empty glass from him and placing it back over on his desk, atop a coaster.

When he returns to Zach again he shifts gears.

“How have you been sleeping?” Christopher asks then.

Zach gives a jilted half-shake of his head.

“I dream about carving words in flesh,” He tells him. “When I open my eyes, I’m soaking wet and it takes me a moment to realize it’s sweat and not blood covering my body.”

“You are not like Eric Bana,” Christopher says, letting reassurance seep into his tone. “You have a beautiful gift, Zach. You can place yourself in the mindframe of a killer, experience the world the way they experience it. You are not them, though. And they are not you.”

“Are you sure?” Zach asks. “It’s gets so hard to keep straight where they end and I begin. It feels like I’m the Ouroboros, only I’m eating the tail of the killer and they are eating me in turn. Like there is no end or beginning at all. Like they and I are all me.”

Christopher watches as Zach trembles slightly, his thoughts and confessions apparently eliciting more emotion in the wake of the Scribbler investigation than he would care to broadcast.

He leans forward in his chair then before saying to Zach, “We’re going to end early tonight. It has been a rough week and I want you to go home and get some real sleep.”

Zach scoffs, but he already looks exhausted.

Chris motions for him to wait and walks back to his desk, retrieving a small box.

 _Ambien_.

“The pharmaceutical companies are always trying to push these drug samples on doctors,” Christopher explains. “I don’t think you need a full prescription, but I want you to try it if the dreams persist. It could offer some relief until we can get your brain to believe that the monsters you reach out to understand cannot stay beyond their welcome.”

Zach looks skeptically at the drugs, but grateful too.

He lingers at the doorway when Christopher walks him out and looks at Christopher, struggling with words, quite obviously restraining himself from leaning into Christopher’s space.

“And if the headaches persist?” He finally settles on asking.

Christopher gives him a questioning look.

“The massage you did is the only thing that’s worked at fighting off the migraines,” Zach finally admits in a rush of air.

Christopher offers a small smile before saying, “I’m glad it provided some relief.”

Zach shifts on his feet, uncomfortably, as Christopher purposely doesn’t understand what Zach is trying to ask him.

“Can I see you again, if I need to, to manage the headaches?” Zach finally gets the words out, awkward and clumsy with them.

Christopher’s smile widens just slightly as he says, “My friends are always welcome to seek my assistance whenever they need it.”

Zach nods, no small measure of relief visible on his face, and turns to leave.

Chris feels a thrill of pleasure at the look that Zach gives him in parting.

* * *

 

The drive home to Wolf Trap in the evenings is Zach’s favorite time of day. Most nights, the sun has dipped just below the horizon as he sets out for home and he heads right into the welcoming arms of twilight. Other nights, on days that go beyond his nine-to-five teaching gig, he drives off into the darkness of new night.

Zach doesn’t particularly enjoy the drive itself, and while he does appreciate the solitude after a day surrounded by and interacting with people, real and imagined, that’s not what he really enjoys about the ride either.

It’s the silence.

He doesn’t listen to the car radio. It’s been broken for years and he’s never bothered getting it fixed. He just listens to the soft white noises filling the enclosed space: his own breathing, the hum of the air conditioner in late summer, the engine noises thrumming all around him. And he watches the darkening stretch of highway and then the darker stretch of back roads as he nears his little home.

And on some rare nights, he doesn’t make it home alone.

Tonight, making his way home from Christopher’s office, Zach rounds the bend in the endless country route, less than three miles form his front door, when he sees her. She’s a small collie mix, maybe a sheltie, judging by her size and shape. She’s covered with mud, weary, and without any collar. Not as far as Zach can see anyway. He’ll have to dig through the fur to be sure though.

He tsks to himself and pulls over behind her as she trots ahead of him. He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a bag of treats, then steps out of the car.

The small dog stops her forward motion at his short whistle, but she won’t turn until he shakes the bag of treats.

She hesitates before he opens the bag, then she tentatively takes a few steps toward him.

It takes at least an extra half an hour for him to get her close enough to find out if she belongs with someone, but she’s without a collar and she looks like she has been for some time. It doesn’t take much to get her into the car after that.

When he gets her home, he does his best to clean her. He cuts any mats he finds out of her fur, brushes her down, and dries her thoroughly. She’ll need a professional grooming and a trip to the vet later in the week, but, for now, he gives her a full bowl of water and a bowl of boiled chicken and rice on his porch, while his other pups eat their kibble in the house.

Noah, a true mutt, has been with Zach the longest. He just turned up in Zach’s yard one day and would not leave. Skunk, a terrier mix, has been with him the second longest. Zach found him abandoned at the vet’s office when he was bringing Noah in for his regular check up and he couldn’t very well leave the poor boy there. Winston, the Australian shepherd, is the newest. Winston was scavenging the trash behind the local grocery store and quickly warmed up to Zach when he offered him a hot dog and a warm place out of the freezing rain.

Karl says Zach likes to collect strays because he feels a companionship with them, one that’s easier and far more comfortable than any companionship he might find with humans. Zach doesn’t think he’s wrong.

This new girl, this poor collie mix, is just another to add to their motely crew.

When everyone is well fed and all taken care of, he makes his introductions.

The three boys sit dutifully, watching this new addition curiously from across the porch. Karl may think Zach’s collection of pets is a little quirky, but he always compliments him on the way he has with the animals. Zach and dogs have an understanding between them. They have a strong sense of mutual respect, a strong sense of mutual devotion even. It’s overwhelming at times, but ultimately a source of great comfort for Zach. He wonders, for a brief moment, what Christopher would think of his growing menagerie.

He clears his throat.

“Noah, Skunk, Winston,” He says, “This is Abigail. She’s a part of the pack now.”

The boys snuffle a little, yipping for a moment, but one tsk from Zach and they all fall silent.

“Behave,” He says. It’s a gentle reminder that he’s the one in charge in this setting, for once in his life.

The three boys quirk their heads at him, a gesture which many people assume is confusion, but Zach sees it for what it really is: understanding.

The four pups do their initial sniffing, then, getting acquainted with one another. By the time Zach is settling into his own bed that night, his dogs are all settled in together in their beds. All four of them pressed together, like they have always been together.

Miraculously, blanketed in the new emotional warmth of his expanded family, the relief of another case finally put to rest, and the knowledge that Christopher’s drugs are now available for him should he absolutely need them, Zach drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shoutouts to Rabidchild67 and Highflyerwings for being AWESOME alpha readers and sounding boards while I finished and edited this. <3333


End file.
